Daddy, don't leave
by Thesilverlaurel
Summary: After Arthur and Francis have another fight, they decide that it's best to split up, and to each take one of their two sons. But when Matthew wakes up to find Arthur taking Alfred, will the Brit be able to leave? FACE/CAFE family, with hints of ArthurXunknown, and some RusCan you can interpret any way you like


"It's no good, Francis. We can't go on like this."

"Mon amour, what do you mean?"

"We can't keep kidding ourselves like this. We think it's all gonna be okay, but then something stupid sets us off again."

"It's getting better…"

"No, Francis, it isn't. And what about the boys, huh? We can't let them grow up in the middle of this war."

"You are right, mon amour, we cannot hurt nos enfants this way. But what do we do? We cannot make them pick a father to live with."

"No, no, I could never make them choose. It would be better if I go back to England with Alfred, and you stay in France with Matthew."

"We cannot separate them!"

"Matthew is more your son than he is mine, and Alfred is more my son than he is yours. I couldn't bring a shy boy like Matthew up, you couldn't bring a git like Alfred up. Trust me, Francis; it's better this way."

"Okay… Arthur?"

"Yes, Francis?"

"Je t'aime."

"I love you too. I'm sorry."

* * *

The collapsing couple force their kindly smiles as Alfred and Matthew arrive home from Hetalia Nursery, Alfred hollering something about how he's "Gonna kick the Commie bastard's ass for sitting on my little bro!"

Arthur's hand clips upside his eldest son's head. "Where did you learn language like that, boy?"

"Lovino. He always swears, especially at Mr Carriedo."

"Well, I want you to stay away from Lovino, alright? He's leaving a bad impression on you."

"And how was your day at school, Mattieu?"

"Grand, Papa. I stayed away from Carlos, and so did Alfred, so there was pas de problêmes."

"What's this about you being sat on."

"Oh, that was Ivan. He didn't see me."

"Do we need to call Madáme Héderváry about him?"

"Non, Papa. Ivan really was sorry. He painted me a sunflower, and gave me some of his magic water."

"Magic water?"

"Oui. It tasted funny."

"Right!" Arthur claps his hands, silencing the room. "Sit down, boys; dinner's almost ready. Milk, anyone?"

After dual exclamations of agreement, Arthur grabs the milk from the fridge while Alfred climbs into his seat, Matthew setting his beloved white teddy on the spare chair before taking his place next to his brother.

As Matthew settles onto the perch, the fancy French fabric of his trousers slides against the wood of the chair, and the small boy slips. He grabs the table to catch himself, his brother's hand suddenly clasps his arm in an attempt to help. The table skids slightly on the tile floor of the kitchen, screeching, two freshly-filled glasses of milk tumbling helplessly onto their side.

Matthew stares at the puddle with wide eyes, confused and a little bit frightened, as a spreading puddle of liquid is a terrifying thought to any six-year-old. Arthur simply smiles and mops up the milk, assuring Matthew that "It's alright; no harm done."

Francis pays little attention to the mishap, choosing instead to stare numbly down into the pan, being careful to remember which two of the burgers were for his sons. He can't mix them up. Or he could… then Arthur would have to stay. He can't go anywhere if he's fast asleep.

Alfred's face lights up brighter than the Fourth of July as the hamburgers are placed before the siblings. He dives at the meal, meat juices dripping carnivorously down his faces, while Matthew just picks at his chips.

"Is something the matter, mon petit?" Francis strokes the younger son's head, carefully avoiding the sensitive curl.

"What's wrong with you and Dad?"

The room falls silent. Alfred stops chomping maliciously, Arthur stops telling Alfred off for chomping maliciously, and the breath catches in the throats of both adults.

"W-what makes you think there's something wrong, mon petit?"

"Mattie's got, like, a fifth sense for it. He always knows when you've been fighting."

"But it's been real bad today, hasn't it?"

"Non, mon petit, stop worrying yourself. From today there will be no more fighting, je promets."

Arthur stiffens at the comment. It's just too true. "Boys, your father and I have to go, uh, look through some bills. Alfred's been playing too many video games." And with a joking glare at the eldest child, he drags Francis from the room.

Matthew listens as his fathers clomp up the stairs. "Do you think they're gonna have make-up sex?"

"Dude! I'm eating!" Alfred pulls a face, making gipping noises.

"Sex is a part of life, Alfred," Matthew says matter-of-factly.

"Mattie, bro, you are definitely French," Alfred crams the last bite of his burger into his mouth, and gazes longingly at his brother's. Sighing, Matthew shoves his plate across. Alfred whoops in joy, "The hero will make it up to you, bro, I promise."

* * *

"Bon nuite, mon héros Alfred," Francis kisses his son on the forehead before moving to the tidy half of the bedroom, and kissing the younger son goodnight. "Bon nuite, mon petite."

"Goodnight, git," Arthur says, laughing, running a hand through Alfred's hair, "And by the way, a psychic power would be a sixth sense, not fifth."

"Oh," Alfred mumbles, eyes already half-closed. Arthur fights a sob; the drug was stronger than he thought.

Alfred is snoring by the time Arthur reaches Matthew. He runs a hand over the soft blond hair, wishing his son sweet dreams.

"Dad?" Matthew says quietly, just as Arthur is making to leave, "Papa doesn't mean the nasty things he says."

"What're you talking about, lad?"

"You always argue. You fight about money, about me and my brother. We hear glasses breaking when we're in bed. We hear Papa cry, and you yell, as this is what we come home to. This is supposed to be our shelter."

"Your Papa promised that there'll be no more fighting, and he meant every word of it," Arthur sits on the edge of the bed, resting his hands over Matthew's.

Matthew smiles shakily. "Y'know when Papa asked about Ivan sitting on me"

"Yes?"

"I lied. Ivan knew I was there. He sat on me so I wouldn't run away. He gave me the sunflower painting and the magic water to make me feel better."

"Why did you want to run away?"

"I didn't want to come home. I told Ivan; "I don't wanna go back to that place," but he said I "didn't have a choice, no way.""

Arthur scoops Matthew up, and squeezes him into a tight hug. "I'm sorry, Matthew, I really am."

Matthew gives his father a quick hug back, before resting his head on the pillow and gazing at a photograph on the bedside table. He smiles at the picture, picking it up, making sure that Arthur sees the four people behind the glass. Francis is sat in an armchair, with Matthew on his knee holding Kumajiro, Alfred perched on the arm of the chair, and Arthur stood behind, one hand on the back of the chair by Francis's head, the other making sure that Alfred didn't fall. All four are smiling.

"Our family portrait," Matthew's expression matches the Matthew's in the photograph, "We look pretty happy, eh? Let's go back to that."

Arthur forces a smile, but doesn't answer.

"Dad," Matthew replaces the portrait, and settles back into the pillow, "You'll never, ever forget me, will you?"

"Of course not! Matthew, what's got into you?"

"Carlos bullies me because he thinks I'm Alfred, and keeps forgetting that I exist."

"What makes you think I'll forget you?"

Matthew shrugs. "But you never will, will you?"

"Never, ever."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

* * *

An hour later, Arthur sneaks back into his son's room. Alfred snores noisily, and Matthew is facing the wall, seemingly asleep.

Arthur opens Alfred's wardrobe, and takes out the suitcase that he and Francis had packed while their boys had been eating their burgers. Glancing across at Matthew's bed, Arthur sighs, and takes the suitcase down to the car. He offers Francis a weak smile. A tear slides down the Frenchman's face, and the flamboyant blond walks away to the garden. He and Arthur have already said their goodbyes.

When Arthur walks back into his children's room, he is surprised to see Matthew sat bolt upright, staring at him in confusion. A thousand thoughts run through the Brit's head at once. He has to leave. He can't let his sons grow up in the middle of this crazy war. "It's better this way," he tells himself, repeating it over and over and over in his head like a mantra.

"Daddy?"

Arthur tears his gaze away from his youngest, and marches robotically to Alfred's bed, picking the boy up bridal style.

"Daddy, what're you doing? Where are you taking Alfred?"

Arthur rallies on, out of the bedroom, trying desperately to block out Matthew's words.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" Matthew's voice breaks, and Arthur's heart shatters, "Daddy, don't leave! Don't leave, cause I need you around!"

Arthur reaches the stairs, and takes the first cautious step down.

"Papa loves you! No matter what he says, it's true! I know that he hurts you, but remember I love you too!"

Arthur has reached the bottom of the stairs. Francis is outside, staring at the stars, pretending his loved one isn't walking out of his life with one of their sons in his arms.

"I promise I'll be better, Daddy, I'll do anything. Daddy, please don't leave!"

Tears are stabbing at Arthur's eyes as he reaches the door and steps out into the night air.

"Don't leave us here alone!"

Arthur straps his son into the car, hands trembling.

"Papa will be nicer… I'll be so much better… I'll tell my brother… I won't spill the milk at dinner."

Arthur marches around the car and climbs into the driver's seat, slamming the door before Matthew can block it.

Matthew presses his small hands against the window, still pleading, "I'll be so much better, I'll do everything right… I'll be your little boy forever… I'll go to sleep at night."

The car starts, and Matthew backs away from the engines roar, still screaming "Daddy, don't leave!" as the car pulls away. Arthur watches in the mirror as Matthew gets smaller and smaller, until he is nothing more than a little white smudge, then the car turns a corner, cutting Alfred and Arthur from the teary-eyed boy's line of sight.

* * *

Three miles away from the house, Arthur pulls over, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel. Resting his head on his trembling hands, he breaks down, his shoulders shuddering as raspy sobs choke from his throat, Matthew's voice repeating in his head like a broken record; "Daddy, don't leave. Turn around, please, Daddy, don't leave."

He could go back. Greet Matthew in the morning, tell him it was all just a bad dream. Nurse Alfred's groggy head, blame it on too many video games frying his brain. Start again with Francis, and pray to God that this time it'll work out.

But how many times have he and Francis 'started again'? and every time they try, the arguments simply get worse, over something even more trivial, and it takes longer to smooth out the ruffles. And in the middle of those fights stand Alfred and Matthew. They heard every cruel word, every hit, every feeble attempt to make amends. That would hurt them worse than any beating from Carlos, or being sat on by Ivan, or Natalia's wrath after she discovers that Ivan and Matthew are now apparently friends.

It's better for the boys if they're taken away from the fights. Even if it means that the boys have to be separated. Even if it means that Arthur can never see his lover again. In Arthur's world, his sons come first.

Leaving his beloved and his son is hurting him, but Arthur convinces himself that it'll all be better in the long run. Maybe, in a few years' time, they can all meet up again. Alfred and Matthew will cling to each other, and tell each other all about their friends, and adventures and heroics, and they'll laugh like children and play together, catching up on all the brotherly love they've missed. Maybe Arthur and Francis will watch their sons, and, after discussing the thought, they'll try one more time. They do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Maybe. Just maybe. Or maybe that's just too many maybes.

* * *

"Papa?"

"Mon petit!" Francis scoops his teary-eyed son up, hugging him tight, "Why are you awake?"

"I couldn't sleep," Matthew sobs, "And then Daddy came in, and he took Alfred!"

Francis chews on his lower lip, stroking Matthew's hair as the boy cries into his shoulder.

"Papa… earlier you promised that you and Dad won't fight anymore. You were right."

"What do you mean, mon petit?"

"You can't fight if Dad's not even here."

* * *

One. Just one. Just to stop the pain.

It didn't work. That voice is still there. "Daddy, don't leave. Turn around, please, Daddy don't leave."

One more shot. Just one.

It didn't work. Another.

It didn't work. Another.

It didn't work. Another

It didn't work. Another…

* * *

_Ten years later, at Allies Academy_

"Excuse me… Mister Kirkland?"

Arthur turns around to see a teenage boy around his Alfred's age. The boy has a look of Alfred to him too. Although, this boy is a couple of inches shorter, his hair longer and a few shades darker, he has a curl instead of the cowlick the Arthur has given up trying to smooth down, his eyes are more lilac than Alfred's forget-me-not blue, and he carries a stuffed white bear in his arms like some overgrown child.

"Who are you?" Arthur asks bluntly.

The boy's face crumples. "M-Matthew. Matthew Bonnefoy; your son."

Arthur frowns. Is this some sort of joke? "No… my sons are over there," he points to a corner, "Alfred and Peter."

Matthew's grip on his teddy tightens. "You… you don't remember me?"

Arthur shakes his head, his confused expression supposed to encourage the trembling Canuk to explain, but Matthew simply runs away, failing to muffle his crying.

* * *

Matthew toys with the end of Ivan's scarf, tear-tracks still staining his flushed face. The Russian makes no move to re-claim his scarf, and simply holds Kumajiro -after forcing the bear from Matthew before he'd gripped the toy so hard it ripped- and a bottle of vodka, or 'magic water' as he and Matthew prefer to call it.

"Y'know Ivan, ten years ago, both my fathers made me a promise. Papa promised that he and Dad wouldn't fight anymore. He kept that promise. Dad promised he'd never forget me. He broke his promise. But, I guess he didn't actually promise. He never physically said "I promise I will never forget you." I asked him if he promised, and he said "yes." Does that still count as a promise?"

"I don't know, Matvey."

"Do you remember my promise?"

Matthew turns around. There stands Alfred, in his All-American Glory, holding a burger.

"You gave me your hamburger, remember?" Alfred holds the burger out to his brother, "And I promised that the hero would make it up to you."

Matthew timidly takes the burger, and turns it over in his hands a couple of times. Then, he grabs his brother and drags him into a bone-crushing hug that he would usually reserve for Kumajiro. Smiling, Alfred embraces his brother. But, his eyes narrow as he catches sight of a long, beige coat.

Alfred smacks a clenched fist to Ivan's shoulder, growling, "Don't you sit on my little bro, you Commie bastard."

Ivan just sends Alfred that creepy-cute smile of his. Alfred returns to hugging his sibling. Matthew ignores the unfriendly exchange between the duo. It feels just like Hetalia nursery again.

* * *

As the Allies Academy drop-in day draws to a close, Alfred is forced to leave his twin's side. He leaves with Arthur and Peter, and Matthew leaves with Francis and Ivan.

As Arthur pulls out of the car park, he catches sight of the strange boy form earlier, still clutching that teddy. He seems smaller, younger. And, in Arthur's broken mind, the jeans and hockey shirt have vanished in place of a white nightshirt with a red ribbon. The Academy becomes a well-kept house, the afternoon becomes night, and the busy car park becomes a quiet, empty driveway.

And as the little boy walks away, until he is nothing more than a little white smudge, Arthur is sure he can hear a little voice crying;

"Daddy, don't leave!"

* * *

**A/N:**

**I don't own Hetalia, or P!NK, or her song Family Portrait**

**Depressing enough for you? The beginning wasn't the best, but I kinda like it this way. My writing; my preferences.**

**-Laurel Silver**


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